Another Roll of the Dice
by Scribbler
Summary: Five things that never happened to the characters of YGO, but could've. Five different universes. Five points in time.


**Disclaimer –** Saying Yu-Gi-Oh! belongs to me is like saying my stuffed rabbit fronts The Rasmus.

**A/N –** I've always loved the 'five things that never happened' device, but don't seem to write it very often. Why, I can't imagine, but I read the imaginatively titled (I say this in all adoration, understand) _Five Things That Never Happened _by Simone Landon in YGO and, lo and behold, this happened. I shall include the instructions from that fic (because they're the most succinct definition of a 'five things' fic that I've found) so someone else can pick up the baton after me. Hint hint.

Instructions: _I've always been fond of the five things concept, but it's occurred to me lately that not everyone who runs outside of Buffy and other western hemisphere pop fandom circles knows of it. Basically, therefore, it consists of writing five scenes that are a departure from canon, either drastically or more subtly. They can be interconnected, or they can not be. The whole point is just to come up with five separate possibilities._

* * *

**Another Roll of the Dice**

_(or, Five Things That Never Happened in Yu-Gi-Oh)_

© Scribbler

_Written: July 2005._

_Posted: August 2005._

* * *

1.

The first time Anzu saw the puzzle it was sitting in the middle of Yuugi's desk. It was less than half finished, gold and shining in the sunlight from his window. The scattered pieces reminded her of the Lego bricks she used to play with when she was small.

When she expressed an interest Yuugi was all too glad to show it to her. It was, he admitted, a frustrating thing. His grandfather had brought it back from one of his digs as a souvenir, but a few months later had foisted it onto his grandson when it proved too time-consuming and difficult. Yuugi had spent long hours trying – and failing – to solve it, and even more just staring at it. Of course, he was hasty to add, that was before he met Anzu – before he had a friend to draw him from his bubble of loneliness.

Their friendship was the highest point in his life since his father died and his mother's breakdown made her move to the city. Anzu felt like she should be bothered that Yuugi put so much weight on it, but it wasn't like she had any reason to be creeped out by him. Yuugi was one of the few decent boys at school, and she liked him – though not in a romance novel sort of way. He was quiet and humble and failed all his exams on the first try.

When she asked if she could hold the puzzle he all but thrust the completed section into her hands.

"It's pretty," she said, turning it over. It felt heavier than it should've.

"You can have it, if you like," Yuugi offered.

"I couldn't do that, it's too valuable! And your grandfather - "

"He won't mind. Honest. It's mine to do with what I want, and I want to give it to you."

Anzu was touched. It was, in a weird kind of way, the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. She got it out as soon as she'd had her evening meal, sitting at her own desk in her own bedroom with Yuugi's gold pieces scattered before her.

The puzzle was challenging. She could understand why Yuugi and his grandfather had never cracked it. She wasn't the best at solving puzzles herself, but she liked them. It might have been a throwback from spending so much time around Yuugi. He was a master at this sort of thing – a by-product of a childhood spent mostly on his own. The idea that she could do something that he couldn't, could compete with him in his own area of expertise made her struggle on where she might otherwise have given up.

She spent as much time as she could on the puzzle. Usually when she came home from dance class she jumped straight into the shower, but more and more she found herself sitting at her desk, slotting and unslotting pieces while the sweat dried on her. It became a mixture of hobby and catharsis, giving her something to distract herself with while her parents were arguing downstairs. The more they argued, the more her hands seemed to accomplish. Once or twice she looked down to see that she had completed whole sections of the puzzle without even realising it. Other times she could spend hours fighting with one piece that simply refused to fit.

"How's the puzzle coming?" Yuugi often asked, a hint of regret in his voice, even though he refused whenever she offered to give it back.

"It's coming," Anzu would reply.

When the bullies got to Yuugi she went home so frustrated that she felt like the puzzle pieces could melt from the heat of her fury. She was his best friend and she wanted to protect him, but she couldn't be there all the time. And besides, his already battered reputation was damaged further each time he was rescued by a girl. The boys taunted him and the girls laughed in his face. When they got into high school it escalated, until Yuugi just stood there while other kids punched him and stole his lunch money because it was so much better than what would happen if he fought back, or – worse – she stepped into save the day.

One morning she walked by the game store and he didn't come out to meet her. His grandfather said he'd already gone to school. Anzu was niggled he hadn't waited to walk with her, but he wasn't there when she arrived. He missed roll call, and first period, and recess. He missed art class, which he usually loved. His paintings of monsters and grotesque, under-the-bed type creatures were what the teacher called 'inspired', but which Anzu secretly thought disturbing.

It wasn't until lunch that she found him cowering under the bleachers in the gym, torn and bloodied and blinking too rapidly. His bag was missing, and with it all his expensive books and the collection of key chains he'd kept since fifth grade.

The school said there was nothing they could do about it. Everyone _knew_ which kids had done it, but they had no proof, and Yuugi wasn't saying anything. He was too afraid of the repercussions.

Anzu went home seething. She slammed at the puzzle, knocking bits together more by luck than skill. Her father had gone out for the evening, and her mother was at bingo. Peace reigned in the house, but she was too angry and overwrought to appreciate it. The last piece of the puzzle slipped into place, but she didn't realise until her room was suddenly filled with coloured lights and what felt like a small cyclone.

Afterwards, she didn't know how to express the sensation of being sucked deep into her own body. She was still there, still in _residence_, but there was an abrupt sensation of newness, of _nearness_ that defied description. It was as though her mind, her sense of self was a reservoir made separate by a beaver dam, and then suddenly one of the twigs in the dam came loose and something else seeped in.

She nestled in the recesses of her brain, while this new occupant stood up – using _her _body – knocking her chair over backwards – _her_ chair – and looked down at her hands – _her _hands, with the little ink stain on the right thumb from her leaky fountain pen.

"Well," said a voice. Not hers, but it came from her throat. She knew this later, when she retained more consciousness of … everything, really. "Well," it said, "this is unexpected."

* * *

2.

Shizuka looked at the tape. It was rectangular and black, just like all tapes, but on the side was written 'play me'. Curious, she slipped it into the VCR.

A grainy image crackled to life. "Hey, sis," said Jounouchi's face.

Shizuka smiled. She barely got to see her brother anymore. Jou was a pain in the neck and a magnet for trouble, but seeing his face brought to mind memories of sandcastles, poking jellyfish with sticks and the smell of candied apples.

"Just thought I'd drop you a line, tell you what's been going on," the tape said. "I'm great, so's dad. Still on the sauce, but whaddya gonna do? I got me some new friends. Bet you never thought you'd hear that from me, huh? They're good guys, too. A gaming freak and a ballet dancer. Honda's still kicking around, but he's better than he used to be. Provisional motorcycle licence at last. Who would've thunk it? My buddy, the straight and narrow dude. "

Shizuka frowned. There was something … off about Jou's manner. He was too jolly. He'd always been the more cheerful of the pair of them, but this time it seemed forced and unnatural. She didn't like it.

Evidently, neither did he. Tape-Jou sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Nugh, I guess I'd better cut to the chase. This tape is so's you can see what I look like all nice and pretty one last time, Shizuka. See, the doctors tell me I got a real limited time left before my eyesight goes completely. I can still see okay at the moment, but they used the words 'rapid decline', which doesn't exactly fill me with confidence. After that it's dark glasses and a white stick for yours truly. Although maybe I can swing for a guide dog. I could teach it to bite people I don't like. Heh." He gave an unconvincing chuckle.

Shizuka's hands were at her mouth. So soon? She'd thought he had months left. And she was stuck way out here while he was still in Domino …

"So … that's about it. I'll email you sometime with updates, 'kay? I better go now. I'm at school in the AV Lounge, and the janitor doesn't know I've 'borrowed' this camera. I just wanted to say – whoops. Gotta go." There was the sound of a door being unlocked and a man's voice. The picture tilted and cut to fuzz.

Shizuka stared at the blank screen for several minutes. Then she got up, walked upstairs, brought out her piggy bank and prised out the stopper. She poured out a mountain of small change onto her flowery bedspread and counted it meticulously – twice. Just enough money for one train ticket to Domino, with enough left over for about half a cup of coffee.

Her mother would refuse to go, just like always – bitter feuds with ex-husbands were _so _passé – and there was no way Shizuka would force Jou to come to Jikusimaki in his condition.

Carefully and quietly, she crept into the hall and grabbed the cordless phone. The lady at the booking office was a little surprised to have someone so young on the line, but Shizuka was quiet and insistent. Then she brought out her scented notebook – lemon had run out ages ago, but her mother liked strawberries, so it would do – and wrote a long note, which she put in the bread bin where it would be found during a hunt for toast.

The next morning she was on a train to her old home, where her older brother and his friends were waiting for her on the platform. The smallest, a boy called Yuugi, had an earnest expression and a box tucked under one arm. He kept talking about someone kidnapping his grandfather.

Shizuka didn't care what happened now. She was with her big brother, who wore glasses and looked like a dork, but still smiled the same smile as when they were kids when he spotted her. She realised just how much she'd missed him when he wrapped her in a bear hug, and she got a faceful of shirt that smelled slightly of mildew and old ramen. It was Jou-smell. It made her want to never let him go, and she vowed right there and then that she would stay with him until he could no longer see her, no matter where they went, or what she had to do.

* * *

3.

Seto was unimpressed.

His dinner guest poked at his food and swept ash-blonde hair from his face. He didn't bother to hide his expression, nor the emotions that ran through it. He was tense, a little cowed by their surroundings, but his jawline bespoke determination.

"You said you had important information for me," Seto accused. He folded his arms, his plate untouched. He hadn't even bothered to unwrap his chopsticks from their napkin. "Information regarding Duel Monsters, and Yuugi Mutou." The name tasted bitter as bad wine.

His guest nodded. "I have some information on Mutou, though I'm not sure it's what you're after. I actually had an ulterior motive in asking you here."

Seto didn't even blink. He just stood and picked up his briefcase.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't make it a habit to indulge fraudsters. You brought me here under false pretences, therefore I'm leaving."

"You're in great danger."

He turned on his heel.

"So is Yuugi Mutou."

He paused, but kept his back to the young man. "You have five seconds to convince me this is worth spending my time on."

"Yuugi Mutou holds one of the Sennen Items, a puzzle he wears around his neck. I've seen it on pictures of him. He never takes it off. There is someone who will steal this puzzle from him, or will at least try to."

"And this concerns me, how?"

"You are considering holding a Duel Monsters tournament, correct?"

Seto tensed, though his posture didn't change. He'd told only a handful of investors and city officials about his Battle City designs. Everything was strictly need-to-know, in case one of the other gaming companies struck first with a bigger, better tournament for one if their own games. There was no glory in being the best if he only won against weak opponents. "How do you know about that?"

"My Sennen Item. I have journeyed a long way, Mr. Kaiba, on the guidance of this trinket." Something jingled. It could have been any part of the elaborate gold jewellery around the young man's neck, wrists, or stuck through his ears. "It told me about your rivalry with Yuugi Mutou, and how you'd do anything to beat him. It also told me that someone is going to manipulate your tournament and turn it into a vendetta against Mutou – a vendetta I don't think you'd appreciate, since your aim is to defeat him and become Duel Monster champion yourself, yes?"

Seto turned. He prided himself on his glacier stare, but the young man didn't flicker under it. "You're either lying, or a complete crackpot. Why on earth should I not report you for weak mental health?"

"Because I hold the key to Yuugi Mutou's defeat. And I'm willing to give it to you." From nowhere he produced a playing card. It wasn't one Seto recognised from any file or collector's directory.

"You want something in return."

"Only your promise to defeat another opponent, who will also make it to the final rounds of your tournament. It is important that _this _opponent is defeated. _Very _important." He touched one of his necklaces briefly. Seto thought it an ugly thing; the metal faded, the chain too short, with an ostentatious eye design in its centre. "Otherwise she can't be saved."

"Not that I'd mind crushing some nonentity, but I don't do parlour tricks. Who is this supposed insurgent?" Seto asked, keeping his gaze on the card. "And who the hell are you, anyway? What's your stake in all of this?"

The young man smiled sadly. "My name is Malik Ishtar. I take an interest because my birth killed my mother, and the bitterness that caused never faded from my family. I indirectly created the one you must defeat. Her name is Isis, and she is my sister."

* * *

4.

Honda Hiroto hated his mother.

Or at least, he hated her right now. She was bossy and pushy, she left him in the after-school care of his evil big sister, and now … now she had terminated any hope he ever had of a social life. One little fight in the playground – just one! It wasn't even like he'd won it, either. Like the embarrassment of having some other kid sit on his chest and punch him in the face wasn't enough, now he had to endure this … this _shame._

Ballet class.

Under instructions from his school's guidance counsellor, Honda's mother thought it would even out his rough edges. Honda knew better. He was nine years old, and though he'd realised cooties weren't real, just the _thought_ of dancing some prissy sissy dance alongside a rail of girls was enough to make his stomach turn.

He sat in the corner, fuming, until one of the leotard retards came over.

"Hi. My name's Anzu. What's yours?"

"Buzz off."

"If you don't tell me your name, I'll stomp on your nuts."

"What?" He blinked up at her. She had a round face and a truly unfortunate haircut, but it was obvious she'd been dancing for a long time. Her body was lithe and skinny from the waist up, but man, those were actual _muscles _under those tights. They rippled as she shifted her weight from one hip to the other and folded her arms. One good stomp from those legs would have him singing soprano until twelfth grade.

"Your name. Tell me what it is, or I'll stomp you." She kept a bright smile on throughout her statement. It was a little unnerving.

"Uh, Honda. Honda Hiroto."

"Honda? Isn't that some kind of car?"

"Isn't Anzu a kind of peach?"

She laughed. "Yeah. Hey, you wanna warm up together?"

The line of pretty and not-so-pretty girls at the barre were raising their legs, and then putting them down again. Raising their arms, and then putting them down again. Tilting their heads, and then tilting them back again.

"Not bloody likely." He'd heard that on a TV show once and it sounded really rude.

"Why? Can't you do it?"

"I could do that in a heartbeat! I just don't want to look like a total dork."

"Ballet isn't dorky. It's hard work."

"Pshaw." Honda's big sister said that whenever he tried to convince her he was allowed to stay up late, watch TV and eat Frosted Sugar Chocolate Bombs for supper.

"Okay. Then show me."

"What?"

"Show me what you've got." She thought for a moment. "I dare you. You're a boy, aren't you? Boys are always daring each other to do stuff."

"Of course I'm a boy. That's why I'm not supposed to do ballet. It's soppy."

"Is not. I think you _can't _do it. I think it's too difficult for you. I think you're _scared_."

Honda stuck out his tongue and went through a series of clownish impressions of what the girls were doing. He fell on his butt with a startled cry when Anzu smacked him on the back of the head.

"Don't be dumb. Do it properly, or I'll give you such a wedgie."

"You couldn't give me a wedgie if you tried!"

"Oh really? Wanna test me?" she shot back. The look in her eyes said she'd probably enjoy hearing him squeal.

Grudgingly, and wondering where the hell the real teacher was, Honda got up.

"Fix your feet. First position."

"What?"

"Don't you know first position?"

"There are positions for feet?"

She sighed and bent down to push his legs into place. She lightly slapped at his ankles when he was too slow, or didn't get it quick enough, guiding him through all the basic positions for ballet. At the end of it, Honda's legs felt quite battered.

He could've taken her, of course, but it felt wrong hitting a girl. Even though she would probably have held her own in a fight anyway. _And _girls fought dirty, always kicking at boys' soft bits and running around screaming they'd won while he was writhing in agony on the floor. Anzu looked like a girl who'd do just that to a boy like him.

"There. Very good. You're a natural," she said at last.

Honda just stuck out his tongue, right as the real teacher walked in.

"So how did you like ballet?" his mother asked when she came to pick him up. "Was it as bad as you thought it'd be?"

Honda caught Anzu's eye across the studio. "It was okay," he replied with calculated nonchalance.

His mother made him go to a whole semester's worth of classes. Honda managed to keep it secret from the guys at school, but six weeks in his sister turned up at school in her car and honked the horn for him to hurry up or he'd be late for Madame Rosa's.

"Madame Rosa? My sister takes ballet classes with her on Saturdays," said Jounouchi Katsuya, who had joined Honda's class that year and had fists like socks full of damp sand.

"You take ballet!" exclaimed one of the others. And then they were all off, whooping and hollering and teasing him from roll-call to finishing bell, until Honda had to beat the crap out of five of them so they'd shut up.

Bossy Anzu was waiting for him every class. She went over what they'd done last time before the teacher came in, so that Honda got more praise than criticism for his memory. Madame Rosa was an austere woman who never used more words than was absolutely necessary. Being the only boy in her class, Honda found himself watched a lot. He improved immensely under both hers and Anzu's tutelage – though always grudgingly.

He gradually learned that the other girls didn't like Anzu much, but she stayed on anyway because she genuinely loved dancing enough to endure their jibes. She'd developed a slightly prickly personality to survive there, and though she didn't suffer fools and acted far too old sometimes, she was also kind of nice when you got to know her. She looked after Honda, even though he resented it at first. Once, he came in to find her with red-rimmed eyes, the other girls sniggering at whatever they'd said to make her cry.

After that, she and Honda created a little bubble of bristles that the rest of the class couldn't penetrate. Honda didn't like the other girls, either. They were into pink and unicorns and sparkly fairy dust. He was into monster trucks and boxing and Super Soakers. Facing off in the Them versus Us weekly battle, he and Anzu discovered they actually liked a lot of the same stuff outside ballet class.

"You like Transformers?"

"Megatron rules!"

"My mom won't let me watch The Simpsons,"

"You can borrow my tapes if you want."

"I can't do my math homework."

"Hey, don't look at me for help. I'm flunking math."

To his great surprise – and perhaps a little dismay – Honda found he actually liked Anzu. Not in a teenager, sucking face kind of way; the way all those boys his sister brought home liked her. He liked her the way he used to like hanging around with Jounouchi, before the dude got all weird and ragged on him one too many times about the ballet classes. Given time, his friendship with Jounouchi might have matured into something strong and admirable. As it was, Honda didn't need to work on rebuilding old bridges. He had Anzu.

"This isn't right," he said one day when they were playing soccer in his yard.

"What isn't?" Anzu dribbled past him and scored a goal between the garbage can and a bundled up sweater.

"You're a girl. I'm supposed to hate you."

"My mom always said conformity was for losers. And that's 7-3 to me."

"6-3!"

"I just scored. That makes seven goals you let through."

"It makes six and you know it!"

She leaped on him. They rolled over in the dust – Domino City didn't allow for many gardens. Somehow Honda ended up laying underneath Anzu, her knees on his chest and her hands clamped onto his shoulders. He coughed on his own spit.

"So how many goals is that?"

"Si-hix – ack-ack."

She frowned. He twisted from the waist and reversed their positions. Anzu squealed like a stuck pig as she tumbled over.

Honda grinned down at her. "Okay, it was seven. I'll say you're the winner if we can go get some ice-pops."

His grin – slightly crooked, streaked with dirt but radiating mischievousness – was reflected back at him. "Deal."

* * *

5.

Professor Sugoroku Mutou rubbed hard at his eyes. His computer buzzed, fan working to cool machinery that had been working for the better part of the day. Its antiseptic sound created an odd counterpoint to the ancient and historical objects crowding the shelves and cabinets.

The door was open. It was always open. Sugoroku thought it seemed unfriendly to leave his office shut off from the rest of the university. When Imiji appeared his reflection was obvious in the computer's screen.

Sugoroku swivelled his chair around. "Going home already?"

Imiji glanced at his watch. "It's past midnight, Professor Mutou. And I know you were here late last night, too. _And _you were here early this morning."

"What are you, my mother?"

"You can't burn the candle at both ends. Not if you want to impress the board on Friday."

Ah yes. The Board for the Dispersal of Antiquity Related Resources. Sugoroku's department had been fighting for a look at their grant for the past twelve months. While the university provided a great deal of money for its archaeological department, students weren't exactly lining up to join the course. Without their fees, research was funded primarily by grants and private donations.

"I'm working on just that." Sugoroku gestured at the computer.

"You hate computers."

"I know. Confounded things. Give me a pile of mud to stick my hands in any day."

Imiji laughed. He'd been part of Sugoroku's team for three years now, and knew the old man as well as anyone did. There was a welcoming air about their small group of archaeologists, lecturers and postgraduates, so that any undergrad felt instantly at home as soon as they stepped through the door. If they didn't, then odds were the course wasn't for them anyway.

"But I take your point." Sugoroku leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his neck. "It wouldn't look too impressive if I fell asleep on the podium. I'll be five minutes. Just give me a chance to clean up and I'll walk with you to the parking lot."

Imiji nodded and went back to fetch his own briefcase, leaving Sugoroku alone, save for the insistent drone of his computer. He saved his files, closed it down, and rose stiffly. His old bones couldn't take long hours of inactivity very well. They tended to seize up around the joints. He refused to use a cane, though. It seemed too much like an admission of defeat.

He leaned heavily on his desk for a moment, hand brushing an old photo frame. In it, a very much younger Professor Mutou stood with his arm around a much taller woman. He was unmistakable, sporting the same bizarre hairstyle he still wore. She was chestnut to his reddish-black. Over hazel eyes were thick-framed glasses that did nothing for her, but she gave a broad smile as she held a shard of broken pottery up to the camera. Her name was Kiri, and had she not died a few years after that photo was taken, Sugoroku would probably have married her.

He sometimes wondered what his life would have been like had Kiri lived. He thought (purely intellectually, of course) that he might have liked children someday – perhaps even some grandchildren. Someone to guide through life, make his mark on in a more visceral way than a printed name in a display case.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. He'd never found anyone who shared so much with him, who lit a fire in his belly the same way Kiri had. When she died he dedicated himself to his work as an archaeologist, eventually becoming a world-renowned expert in Egyptology. Several of his biggest finds were in museums in Tokyo, London, New York and Berlin, and there had been more than one National Geographic documentary devoted to his work.

When his advancing years meant he could no longer go into the field he became a university lecturer, and then a professor, charging young minds with the same urge to discover the secrets of the past as was his own as had always been his. He wasn't sentimental enough to consider his students his children, but he knew they were as close as he would ever get to that visceral mark on the world. He was generally happy with the way his life had gone, all things considered, though these days he could have done with more action than he saw behind a desk.

Imiji materialised at the door again. "Ready, Professor?"

Sugoroku finished shoving things haphazardly into a backpack totally inappropriate for a respected lecturer, and slung it over one shoulder. "Onwards and upwards, my friend."

* * *

FINIS.

* * *

**YOU KNOW THE DRILL,**

**THERE'S NOTHING TO IT.**

**IF YOU'VE READ IT,**

**YOU REVIEW IT!**


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